


Maiden Phoenix

by the_wrote



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst and Humor, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Earthborn (Mass Effect), F/M, Found Family, Friendship, LOTS of stuff added in, Mass Effect 2, Romance, Slow Burn, Sole Survivor (Mass Effect), Vanguard (Mass Effect), follows main missions of me2, slight AU, update schedule: 2/month, with fun stuff added in
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-19
Updated: 2018-11-11
Packaged: 2019-07-13 23:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 15,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16028525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the_wrote/pseuds/the_wrote
Summary: The Lazarus Project has failed and Commander Shepard, long dead to the rest of the galaxy, is declared useless to Cerebus. Miranda Lawson has a backup plan in the form of a smuggler who bears a shocking resemblance to the former war hero. With the promise of a fresh start, Elisha agrees to assume Shepard's identity. She'll have to gather her crew, run her ship, and save the galaxy in the way only Shepard could. What could go wrong?Or; Liar, Liar, Pants on Fire: the Strange AU No One Asked For





	1. From the Ashes

Nor shall this peace sleep with her; but as when  
The bird of wonder dies, the maiden phoenix,  
Her ashes new create another heir  
As great in admiration as herself;  
So shall she leave her blessedness to one,  
When heaven shall call her from this cloud of darkness,  
Who from the sacred ashes of her honour  
Shall star-like rise as great in fame as she was,  
And so stand fix'd.

- _Henry VIII,_ Act V, Scene V

* * *

 

[ ](https://fontmeme.com/mass-effect-font/)

 

The bar was doing a good job drowning out the sound of the Galactic News broadcast, and each time the bartender increased the volume, the drunken and sober alike rose their voice to join the clamor.

Elisha leaned closer to her companion, straining to hear over the competition that was taking place between flesh and technology. She braced her elbows on the table, her chest nearly pressed against the sticky top as she lifted out of her chair. “I can’t hear you,” she shouted needlessly.

Jeks contorted his lipless mouth into what she thought was a scowl and blinked big, black eyes at her. If he meant to harangue her about the location she picked - a favorite of his before they ever got down to business - his quick tongue reply was lost in the roar of another, louder voice.

“Hey!” a big man yelled, two meaty fists the size of Elisha’s head crashing down on his table with enough force to cause the drinks of his companion to slosh. The inharmonious crescendo of voices petered to a murmur. “Look,” he commanded.

The bar followed his gaze to the screen that took up one wall.

“-drive core was breached when an unknown ship-”

Elisha and the rest of the bar watched in silence, the wreckage of the Normandy floating across the screen, the hull ripped apart and pieces of her interior splayed across the void of space. Across from her, Jeks sucked in a ragged breath. All around the bar, patrons offered their own sounds of sorrow, gasps, and murmurs, a forceful but whispered, “ _ah fuck_.”

The human woman on the screen was hyper-focused, her pupils dilated as she read the text that was no doubt being supplied just off-screen. High definition and droid mounted cameras came with their drawbacks; everyone watching could see this woman’s panic, her eyes darting back and forth as she rushed to get the news out.

“Commander Jane Shepard, Hero of the Citadel and the first human Spectre”- a photo of the famed commander appeared in the upper right side, the woman looking smart in her blues -“has been reported dead.”

The woman pressed on, details about the rest of the crew and total casualties, but it was clear no one cared about anything else she had to say. Everyone was speaking at once, the shock of the situation escalating from the silent to noisy kind.

“I met the commander once,” someone began the table over, the boast met with an incredulous snicker by others.

“-the krogan tore about the bar before-“ someone else was saying.

“Wow,” Elisha sighed. She looked at the screen once more and noticed a red banner scrolling across the top of the screen: COMMANDER SHEPARD DEAD it declared. “I guess being a hero doesn’t stop one good shot at your ship from killing you.”

“Yikes,” Jeks moaned, “that’s a little morbid.”

She shrugged and took a sip of the drink she had been neglecting. It was too sweet, sticky and viscous, and she smacked her lips to keep them from sticking together. Jeks squinted one eye at her, then looked at the newsfeed. “Has anyone ever told you that you kind of look like her?” he asked, motioning with his head towards the screen.

They had switched to a new photo, this one less staged than the Alliance headshot. Shepard was wearing a black hard suit, a crisp - _it had to be freshly painted, right?_ \- red line on her right arm. She was looking over her shoulder as she stepped onto the Normandy, one hand raised in what could have been a wave or the beginning of a profane gesture. Her expression was blank, carefully neutral if Elisha had a guess at what was going on in her head, her signature red hair pulled high and tight in a bun. There was a turian in blue armor a step behind her, and another human woman was waiting just outside the airlock. The other woman looked grim despite wearing what appeared to be pink armor, her arms crossed and hip cocked as she scowled, presumably, at the camera.

Elisha rolled her head, letting it dip from left to right, her eyes following the motion while he watched her performance, unimpressed and unblinking. “That’s not true,” she tutted. And she had heard it enough times to be unimpressed with the comparison.

“Close enough.” He lifted his thin shoulders into the air and put up a hand before saying, “But hey, what does that matter now? No fame in looking like a dead war hero.”

“Whoa! Talk about morbid,” she teased with a toothy grin.

The mood in the bar had shifted again, and even with the news flashing images from the destruction of the Citadel, the jaunty vibe and shouting had resumed. There wasn’t anyone in the bar who wasn’t in some way touched by what Shepard and her crew had done during the battle of the Citadel, but war heroes could only hold their attention for so long. The news would be on repeat for weeks, there would be public and private ceremonies to honor the commander and any other lives lost this day, and at more appropriate places. The most they could do here was drink to the honor of the dead human.

“Enough talk, period.” Jeks brought his omnitool to life, the orange glow casting his face in an eerie pallor. He tapped on the ghostly keyboard with the nubs of his fingers, and within seconds, Elisha had received an alert. She tapped at her own omnitool, listening with a smile as her companion, Bekir, confirmed the credit transfer.

“A pleasure,” she said with feeling. She rose to her feet, stretching her arms above her head and hearing a pop as her left shoulder protested. “Dock 372.”

Jeks stayed seated, relaxing into the chair and motioning with two fingers for one of the staff to bring him another drink. “Wars never end, and neither does business.”

“You’ve always been my favorite client,” she told him, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial stage whisper. “I’m sure you’ll be in touch.”

She didn’t wait for Jeks response, eager to get to her ship and skitter back to Omega. The cargo had been difficult to procure, and Jeks had rewarded her handsomely for the added risk he assumed she had taken to get it. Even without the bonus, it was a fat paycheck and would get the repairs she and the crew needed. Some of those repairs would come in liquid form, something from Thessia maybe. The team would love her for that. They might even do what she said for once.

The thought brought a smile to her lips. If ever there was a way to a smuggler’s heart, it was alcohol.

 

* * *

 

 

Dr. Wilson reran the simulation. He was past the point of denial where he hoped watching it again would miraculously produce a new, more favorable outcome. Now he watched it as a punishment.

The holographic model of Shepard stretched before him, the orange lines that represented the parts of her they could fix intersecting with gaps, black holes in the data where nothing was being transmitted. Her head was missing from the hologram. Well, more specifically; her brain. If he wanted to, he could prop the body up, manipulate the cybernetic implants in her arms and legs to give her the appearance of movement. With the help of someone at the controls, the Shepard puppet could walk across the room, all elbows and knees, lurching forward like she was being pulled along a string. It wasn’t far off from the truth.

The door slid open, the sharp snap of heels giving away Miranda Lawson without her needing to say anything. Wilson changed the view without a word, bringing up the scans of Shepard’s brain and enlarging them across the holo-emitter. There was a small, rectangular mark on the scans, the implant showing up as a black spot where it was attached to her cerebellum, another buried in the prefrontal cortex. Hidden from view were the wires running between the two and branching out into the other areas of the brain, a paltry mimicry of the neural network they had lost.

“She’s useless to us like this,” he said, even though he didn’t need to. He had worked with Miranda long enough to enjoy seeing her disappointed, and he was rewarded when her mouth pressed into a thin line, her frustration gouged deep in the lines of her face. “We have a puppet, and for all the money we spent, we could have built an army of VI programs that can do as much as she can right now.”

“Would you say it’s a lost cause?” She turned to the doctor. It was a dangerous question, one belied by her casual tone. She might as well be asking him if he didn’t like dinner, if they should order something. Only in this situation, there might as well be a gun to his head, because if she didn’t like his answer, she would probably kill him on direct orders from the boss. _No, honey, the charring adds flavor._

He considered his words carefully, but there was no use in denying the inevitable. He had been working in the dark, isolated ward for nearly two years, his work too high risk to allow him communications with anyone outside the staff he was provided. He had even been forced to wear their ugly uniform, black and orange. It was unflattering and he hated it.

With the finality the situation merited, he looked at her and gave a curt nod. “It isn’t possible.”

She looked stricken. Perhaps she thought he had a secret ace up his sleeve, or that he would beg for more time and delay the inevitable another six months. True to her nature, she recovered quickly and her expression melted into something almost serene. Her head was one that he would have given anything to peek inside.

“Thank you for your work, doctor.”

The sincerity of her voice touched him, and he was thrown off guard. She reached out a hand, and he took it. They had done good work over the past two years, even if it hadn’t been a success. What they _had_ been able to discover would -

His death was quick. Even if she hadn’t been so close to him, she knew where to aim. She let go of his hand as he dropped to the floor, limp and losing color rapidly as he bled all over the floor. Miranda holstered her gun and tapped her omnitool, allowing it to begin transmitting her voice. “Put in motion _Maiden Phoenix.”_

 

* * *

 

This was the longest she had been behind bars, and Elisha was feeling the itch of claustrophobia that accompanied her anxiety. She pressed her face against the transparent barrier that separated her cell from the hallway. There were three, fist-sized holes along the top, just out of her reach, and three more at the bottom. She guessed it was to make her feel like she wasn’t trapped in a coffin, but it only succeeded in making her feel like an insect.

“Hello?” she called past the glass, her nose and cheeks distorted as she looked out.

This was unusual. It had never taken Bekir long to get her out. They had a fund put aside for bribes _exclusively,_ and it was well padded before she had been busted.

 _Could there be no more corrupt C-Sec_? she thought with a sudden chill of horror. She pouted for a moment, breathed on the glass and drew a frowny face in the fog left behind. The thought, as chilling as it was to a well-versed smuggler such as herself, was unlikely. She wiped away the frowny face, huffed on the glass again, redrew a happy face.

Bekir would come. He always had, always would.

Placated, however briefly, she returned to the cot that jutted from the wall and settled herself as comfortably as she could. Across the hall from her, an asari was sleeping, one arm hanging off the bed and the other propped against the wall. Although the bed couldn’t promise a level of comfort the asari had clearly achieved, Elisha made a go of resting. Propped up in the corner, it was almost like sleeping in one of the chairs on the bridge of her ship.

If she managed to fall asleep, she didn’t wake up feeling rested. The loud echo of shoes in the hallway startled her awake, chasing away the benefits of rest with a healthy dose of adrenaline. She had always been a light sleeper, but the feeling of waking up in an unfamiliar bed, blazing white lights overhead, kicked her into overdrive. She tuned her eyes to the door, taking in the two figures that stood there now.

One was slightly familiar, the human who had escorted her to the cell. He was tall and thin, lanky even, with too big hands that seemed peculiar sprouting from his bony wrists. Their walk to the cell had been taciturn and without pleasantries, but he looked frightened half to death now. All the color in his face had migrated to his cheeks, his complexion sallow in comparison to the crimson flush. From a guess at their body language, it was the woman next to him making him so nervous.

“It’s remarkable,” the woman breathed. She was staring at Elisha with a feverishly bright gaze, sizing her up like she was a buffet with too many options.

“What’s going on?” Elisha directed her question towards the guard who was waving his ID in front of the scanner. The device blinked a green light, and the door to the cell slid into the wall.

“Let’s go,” he said, ignoring her question and gesturing with one of his knuckly hands for her to step out. When she made no effort to move, he repeated the motion. “You’re being released,” he said with a barely hidden hint of exasperation, like that explained everything.

She stayed rooted to her cot. “Who am I being released to?” she demanded. Now she focused her attention on the woman dressed in white. The women locked eyes, and Elisha glowered, her shoulders rolling back and her chest puffing out. The other woman’s smile deepened, and without breaking eye contact, she tilted her head to the guard and commanded him: “go.” 

The guard didn’t raise a fuss, and he made a hasty retreat, his shoes scuffing the length of the hallway.

“Hello, Elisha Cirillo. My name is Miranda Lawson. I represent a group that is dedicated to preserving humanities interests across the galaxy, and I have need of your skills.”


	2. Code Name: Shepard

Do not stand at my grave and cry;

I am not there. I did not die.

- _Do Not Stand at my Grave and Weep,_ Mary Elizabeth Frye

* * *

Elisha squinted up at the woman - Miranda - and tried to make sense of what was happening. Where was Bekir? Or _anyone_ from her ship, for that matter? She had never, not once, let any of them sit in a cell for more than a few hours. The one time she had left Livitia overnight in London had been a deserved exception to the unspoken, but well understood, rule. 

The memories of that night - their cargo dumped in a manmade lake that sprawled half a dozen city blocks in the middle of the city, Livitia drawing the short straw and forced to fish the crates out and her subsequent arrest for trespassing, lewd behavior, and possession of enough red sand to kill a squad of krogan - washed over her in a wave of nostalgia.

“Oh,” she said aloud. “ _Uh huh_.” Suddenly, the situation made sense. Miranda, dressed in a suit so white and so tight it couldn’t possibly be practical, was just playing a part in some wild joke the crew had pulled together.

Everything clear, Elisha laughed at herself for getting so worked up, and she relaxed. “Sure, sure,” she said, climbing off the cot and sauntering towards the open cell door. “Skills, yeah, yeah. I’ve got the _skills_ you need.”

Miranda looked displeased with the progress of things, and her smile wilted as her eyes lost a degree of mirth. She stepped aside as Elisha made her way into the hall, an extra swagger in the swing of her hips as she headed for the processing area that would take them back through security and into the Citadel. She had made this walk enough times to know the path.

“So, what do you need me for exactly?” She directed the question over her shoulder, aware that Miranda was strolling a few paces behind.

“Not here.” Miranda nodded as they passed the main security desk. She activated her omnitool and swiped up with her finger as if she was throwing something off the screen. The woman, a human with a hat pulled low over her eyes, opened her own omnitool.

That didn’t seem normal. Accustomed to shady dealings and clandestine behavior, Elisha felt the heavy hand of doubt squeeze her middle. Before she could follow up on the feeling, Miranda was behind her - _on_ her, practically - a hand pressed into the small of her back. “We are going to enter a black skycar that’s waiting for us just at the top of the stairs.”

“Bekir didn’t send you,” she said, the realization tumbling from her lips like a stone.

“No,” Miranda confirmed. Her arm had come to rest around Elisha’s waist, the two walking side-by-side as if they were great friends. 

Once, when she had been young and stupid and without a safety net, Elisha had been kidnapped. A buyer had tried to lowball her, offering a pitiful sum of money for quality ID chits. She had foolishly taken the goods to the meeting, had even put the box containing the chits safely encapsulated in foam on the table, and when she had stormed out with the tech, she didn’t check to see if she was being followed. They had given her the beating of a lifetime, broken more than a few bones and stolen her chits, and left her with a brand the shape of a crescent moon on the back of her left knee. 

As she pressed forward, Miranda’s grip relaxed but firm on her waist, the skycar came into view at the crest of stairs. The little patch of mangled flesh gave her a jolt of pain.

* * *

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The emotion Miranda felt most prominently was elation. This was their backup plan, their expensive backup plan, and for all the complications over the last two years, she finally had Elisha Cirillo. Anything that came after this was inconsequential, and whatever strings she had to pull to wipe Elisha off the map and bring back Shepard were nothing compared to what she was going to achieve.

That there was a criminal that looked like the war hero Commander Jane Shepard had not escaped her employer’s notice. Her mugs shots were convincing enough, a few differences both cosmetic and physical, but nothing that couldn’t be fixed. What had sold Miranda on Elisha was something she had only been able to pick up when watching the woman in person. The way she walked, the lilt of her voice, even some of her mannerisms, were eerily similar. While Shepard was honed, refined, trained, Elisha was sloppy, jagged, and raw, but there was an undeniable air about her that couldn’t be faked. Or so it would appear to anyone they needed to convince.

Miranda looked over at the woman seated across from her, the longtime criminal who had no idea how easy her life had been over the last two years thanks to Cerberus. They had begun expunging records of their would-be-Shepard long before they planned to use her. Warrants erased. Footage, evidence, photos, testimonies, and witness statements that mentioned her name forever gone. All that remained was a scrubbed profile featuring her date and place of birth, university records, fabricated pay stubs and tax records that went back over a decade.

Elisha met her gaze, the smuggler’s stare unwavering and cold. A muscle in her jaw flexed, barely perceptible. Miranda had seen Shepard do the exact same thing in many of her numerous video interviews; it was the commander’s tell, and she wondered if it was Elisha’s as well. 

“Has anyone told you that you look like Commander Jane Shepard?”

The question was met with confusion. Elisha looked once more around the well-furnished apartment she had been brought to. Although Miranda had left the door to the bedroom open - an effort to both assure the woman that there was no one hiding and to increase the size of the space - the apartment was small, cozy. It belonged to a friend of hers and was well maintained in his absence, the smell of stale air the only hint that it wasn’t lived in.

“Surely you know who-“

“I know who that fucking is,” Elisha snapped. “The dead war hero. Boo hoo. Spaced off her own ship. Tough shit.”

“You don’t have her temper,” Miranda commented, ignoring the outburst. “But that can be worked on.” Before Elisha could say anything else, Miranda passed a data pad over the table, placing it screen down in front of her. “You’ll want to read that.”

Elisha eyed the pad suspiciously for a few seconds before using two fingers to flip it over. It clattered back against the table, the screen jostled awake. Miranda watched as Elisha’s eyes moved down the screen, the confusion that colored her cheeks making her reread it. Confusion melted into the pale pallor of rage.

“What is this?” she demanded in a hushed tone. She shoved the data pad back across the table with more force than was necessary.

Miranda kept her voice low, calm and evenly paced. “That’s your death certificate, Elisha. There was a skycar accident yesterday morning. Six cars in all, but only one was sent through the veranda of a nearby cafe. It caused the structure to collapse, and four people fell to their death. You were one of them.”

Most of that was true. The crash _had_ happened; a stroke of luck. Accidents occurred all the time, even on a place as brightly lit as the Citadel, but few were as well timed as the one that took place only a few hours after Elisha had been arrested. All evidence of her presence that day in C-Sec had been carefully erased, and a purchase on her credit chit for the cafe that was struck tragically and senselessly applied posthumously.

“But - but I - C-Sec had - had - “ Elisha stuttered to a stop. The woman’s eyes - blue, Miranda noted, something that would have to be changed - closed as the color returned to her face in a flush that left her neck and cheeks bright.

“If we had the time, I would have done this differently. There is no time.”

Elisha shook her head, her eyes still closed. Miranda could see her eyes rolling beneath the lids, the muscle in her jaw flexing. Miranda had run out of time, but she was willing to give Elisha a little bit more. She waited patiently for the woman to speak, her attention drawn to the view of the ward from the floor-to-ceiling window that made up one wall of the small apartment. The ward was busy with traffic. Skycars zipped back and forth along traffic routes marked with floating buoys. There was a garden across the way and a group of children playing in a fountain. They were dressed in matching orange shirts, the material reflective in the false light that simulated daytime. A school outing of some kind, then.

Time passed slowly as Miranda waited, the sound of Elisha breathing through her nose punctuating the silence. Eventually, the smuggler opened her eyes again, her jaw set in resolution and a hard glint in her eyes. Miranda couldn’t help but smile; there was Shepard again.

“My crew?” the woman asked.

Miranda picked up the datapad Elisha had thrown back her way, brought up a new screen and handed it over. “Bekir Farooqi, Hugh Urry, Livitia Achagatus, Ewen Freemantle, Tuvus Octanis, and Lyra V'lazor. They all have quite the records. Ewen in particular, he’s a busy man.”

Elisha picked up the datapad but kept her face natural as she read the reports. Miranda had compiled everything anyone would need to know to track the hodgepodge crew down. Known safe houses, aliases, alliances with mercenary groups and gangs. Aria T’Loak, the “Pirate Queen” of Omega herself, was mentioned once or twice. If Aria knew that she had been linked to the group’s actives, she might even take care of the issue herself. 

“ _The Diplomat_ ,” Miranda continued. “Clever name for a smuggler’s ship.”

“We all do our own kind of diplomacy,” Elisha replied, a real smile softening her expression. It only lasted the blink of an eye.

Miranda ignored the comment and pressed on: “Commander Shepard was a hero, a _bloody icon,_ and her death two years ago was a strike against the safety of the galaxy. People don’t realize it yet, but I do, and I’m going to bring her back.” She motioned to the datapad in Elisha’s hands. “I can make all this disappear for them. But only if you let them think you’re dead and you do _exactly_ what I need.”

Elisha shook her head, ran shaking hands through her hair that was nearly red enough - another thing that would have to be fixed. Easy. All of it, cosmetic and easy. “I don’t understand what I have to do with any of this. I _kind_ of look like the Hero of the Citadel - the one who’s been dead for two years. What good does that do anyone?”

“Shepard isn’t dead,” Miranda said matter-of-factly and even Elisha couldn’t hide the look of shock that contorted her features. “We’ve spent a lot of money and time rebuilding her. You’ll need to make some changes.”

Elisha pulled her bottom lip between her teeth and gently place the datapad on the table. “Elisha Cirillo isn’t leaving this apartment?” she asked, though her tone suggested she knew the answer.

“Elisha Cirillo has been dead for nearly 24 hours, and her personal effects were sent back to her crew. But thanks to her, Commander Jane Shepard gets a chance at ending a war.”

* * *

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The gang members looked busy. Garrus Vakarian watched the workers through his scope, observing without taking a shot as they erected biotic barriers where they could, makeshift crate barriers where they couldn’t. Their numbers had increased recently too, a sudden surge of fodder flushed out of their hidey holes in a sporadic barrage. If they knew how low on ammo and supplies he was, they could rush him, a mass of bodies that would make it impossible for him to get them all. That didn’t seem to be their plan, and as he watched them fortify their position further, he caught the stiff legged waddles of LOKI mechs in the background.

A figure in the foreground caught his eye. He swung his rifle and watched the asari long enough to confirm her identity. Half aware that he was doing it, he let his talon rest against the trigger, imagined for a moment taking the shot. Lyra V’lazor was a foul-mouthed smuggler who openly bragged about her dealings with Aria T’Loak (off station only), and he had been tracking her movements on Omega for half a year. He knew she didn’t work alone, but she always arrived to the station on a different passenger ship, and so far he had yet to track down anyone with a close connection to her. Whoever she shipped in with, they brought guns, tech, and drugs. And if she was to believed and _did_ work with Aria, then it was most likely Red Sand.

Tracking her with his scope, he watched her saunter over to a batarian in Blue Suns armor. They spoke animatedly, and Lyra raised her hands over her head and waved them in the air, making the batarian laugh. Behind them, a mix of Eclipse, Blood Pack, and Blue Sun grunts were unloading crates.

Her presence was the confirmation he needed.

Garrus lowered his rifle and propped a foot on the windowsill. So that was their game then; they were going to wear him down then send in the mechs, biotics fueled with Red Sand, and enough weapons to take down the station if they put this effort into organizing against their queen.

He hunkered down to count his remaining ammo clips, his rations, and any stims that would help keep him awake. The place was a mess, and even with the open windows, the only fresh “air” it let in came from the gangs hunkered down across from him, giving it a distinctly lived in smell. It hadn’t been a top priority of his to keep the place tidy, but looking around him now, he wondered what his father would think, what his old platoon would say. He didn’t want to bleed out in a vorcha den. If the hierarchy had taught him anything, it was that order had its virtue.

Counting the supplies again, he confirmed how much time he likely had left, and began to clean up. If he had time later, he would call his dad.

* * *

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Elisha woke slowly. First, she was aware that she was no longer sleeping, but she was unable to open her eyes, still too tightly wound in the web of dreamless sleep. She heard the gentle hum of machinery, felt the weighted comfort of a blanket across her arms and legs. Then she became aware of the pain, first a red-hot poker near her ribs, then the heat of it blooming across her body, reaching down to her fingers and toes. Her face was tender and hot, like a sunburn that had been washed with hot water and patted dry. Her neck was stiff, and as she tried to move, she realized it was because she was strapped into a bracer.

“Hello?” she called, aware as the fog of drug-induced sleep wore off that she didn’t know where she was. She blinked against the light as she opened her eyes.

“You’re awake, good. There have been some developments, we need to move out.”

“Ah, Miranda. Lovely. Your bedside manner leaves a lot to be desired.” Elisha smiled and lifted a hand into the air, testing her movement. A little sluggish maybe, but her extremities seemed to be working. She pointed her toes towards the ceiling then flexed her foot down, feeling her calf muscle stretch.

“Can you sit up?” Miranda’s face crested into her field of vision as the woman leaned over her. Elisha felt a pressure on her shoulder where Miranda let her hand rest, a tender look of concern furrowing her brow. 

“Yeah. Ow, _fuck_!” She hissed in pain as she felt something pull at the base of her skull. “But I can’t move my neck.”

“I’ll remove this, it was just to keep your head still while you slept.”

Miranda removed the neck brace, deft fingers pulling loose hair from around the port that was inflamed from the upgrade. She let the brace drop to the bedside as she helped Elisha raise to a sitting position.

Elisha swayed, but strong hands at her back helped her keep her balance. After a moment reorienting herself with her body, she took stock of the damage. Her face hurt, her head hurt, and her abdomen hurt, but only on the left side. “What’s the damage?”

Miranda laughed and motioned to a full-length mirror across the room. “Go see for yourself. When you’re ready, I’ve left something for you to change into. We leave in five minutes.” She turned and headed for the door.

“Wait,” Elisha called after her, “we’re leaving? Where?”

“I’ll explain on the ship. _Your_ ship.” Miranda paused and watched Elisha shuffle across the room. Elisha caught the woman’s eyes in the mirror, and Miranda smile, a real one, serene and warm. Elisha looked away as Miranda said, “Welcome back, Commander.”

The “damage” was minimal, and Elisha had no trouble seeing herself through the changes meant to make her more closely resemble Shepard. Her eyes were - had been - blue, but Shepard’s were brown, and the dark hue was the first change she noticed. Her hair was a deeper red, a color just different enough from her own that she wondered if Shepard had been dying her hair all along. Did commanders have time for that? Between - what was she had been doing? Chasing a homicidal turian with a thing for world domination. Must have left at least a little bit of time for upkeep of what was so obviously a fake shade of red.

Other than that, it was difficult for her to suss what had been changed. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that a small scar that ran under her chin was gone, and a mole that was once hidden just beneath her hairline on her forehead was no more. She didn’t need to look to guess that the tattoo on her ribs had also been removed, though she was thankful for that. Her crew had all gotten each other’s names, list style, in the same location, each person taking a turn inking their name onto their crew member’s skin. Livitia and Tuvus were the only two without the mark, their half-believed claim that turians couldn’t get tattoos enough to appease the drunken humans and asari for the night.

_They all think I’m dead._ The thought hit her hard. She bent at the waist as if she had been struck. After everything they had been through, all the promises and dreams they had shared with one another, they were now out there mourning for her. The message she had sent Bekir the morning she had been arrested had never gone through, she realized belatedly. That day - when had it been? Yesterday? Two days ago?

All her crew knew was that she had left their ship to run an errand, one that everyone but Tuvus knew about. It was going to be a surprise for his birthday, but she had been arrested leaving the shop. She figured her ID chit had malfunctioned, clocked an old name as she passed through security and pinged a warrant, but now she suspected that wasn’t true. 

Bekir had been the first, a farm boy who had put half a dozen relays between himself and the colony where he had grown up. He was gangly with a stupid haircut, but fast hands, and an internal map that made him nearly invisible when he wanted to be and impossible to track. Together, they had scrounged together a living, but it was Hugh and Ewen who had changed their lives. With a rinky-dink ship - surprisingly fast and unsurprisingly filthy - they were in need of a crew for drops. The four took orders for a long time, but when Livitia joined up on Omega, and Tuvus and Lyra soon after on a derelict station, they had a full complement.

She had known Bekir for a decade, Ewen and Hugh for just over half that, and the aliens had come along three years ago. They had made a big splash together. 

It was gone, but Elisha cupped her hand over her ribs where their names had been. It had been her idea to do more, to go past drops and dismal cuts from big payouts that benefited people they never met. She promised that she could protect them. Funny enough, she thought she had done a pretty good job. Arrests were inevitable, but they never went anywhere. If a record was too bogged down, she gave them a new ID chit. She went through ID chits like they were fashion trends. They trusted her, and their names inked on her skin proved it. Their real names; her real name. 

With a sharp inhale through her nose, she looked at herself in the mirror again. Still the same, but different. Different in all the wrong ways. “Hey, Commander Shepard,” she said to her reflection. “Couldn’t stick to ruining your own damn life, you had to ruin mine too? Yeah, well fuck you.”

Her life was over. Elisha Cirillo was dead. It didn’t have to be the end for her crew, and she’d be damned if she let a supermodel ruin their lives too.

When Miranda returned, Elisha was dressed in the armor provided. It was all black, matte, and had to be new, with neither a dent nor a scuff mark to be found. The only color was the slash of red on a white background down her arm and glove, and the N7 logo above her right breast.

“Ready, Shepard?” Miranda asked.

Shepard didn’t flinch. She was ready for the mantel. She turned towards Miranda, lifted her chin, and smiled. “Whose ass am I kicking?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million hugs for my beta Rosie and the FishCat Writer's Group. 
> 
> Come hang with me!


	3. Ghosts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A million hugs for my beta Rosie and the FishCat Writer's Group.

She opened her wild eyes again

and asked some strangers in. 

The strangers felt her in and out.

They found her outsides thin. 

Since her heart was still and hard,

they knocked her insides in. 

- _Strangers_ , Annie Finch

 

* * *

 

 [](https://fontmeme.com/mass-effect-font/)

No doubt being dead could make someone weird. Really weird. And Miranda had warned him what to expect long before Shepard finally turned up. He couldn’t speak for everyone, but Joker hadn’t been worried about the possibility that she might come back from the bright light that had marked her end a little wonky. She had been a little strange in life - a good strange, but strange. What could death do to her that she hadn’t already witnessed - been responsible for, even?

He was worried about what he would say when he finally saw her. Jacob had sent him a message the day before, a frantic string of text explaining that there had been an attack and they were on their way. They were on the way, the three of them: Jacob, Miranda, and Shepard. In the hours since he had paced the hanger bay going over his options. _Sorry you got spaced_ didn’t have the right ring to it. _You shouldn’t have come back for me_ was a little too depressing for their first reunion.

Miranda was the first he heard, her no-nonsense tone carrying across the barren space of the warehouse they had shacked the old crew up in until things got started. “There will be time for you to talk to him later, there has been a development that requires immediate attention.”

“So you said,” came the reply and with it three figures. Miranda and Jacob flanked Shepard. She was dressed in armor, weapons holstered and ready.

Two years dead and the only thing different was how she was wearing her hair. It was an oddly specific thing to notice, but as he watched the woman in the familiar black hard suit get closer and closer, he couldn’t help but single in on the detail. The bun was gone, replaced by a ponytail that bobbed with buoyant enthusiasm as she walked.

Joker thrust his hand out, put it back down, shoved it in his jacket pocket, pulled it back out and hid it behind his back. Dr. Chakwas watched with a bemused expression on her weathered face.

“Should I call her Commander? Shepard? Commander Shepard?” he whispered to her. He had no idea about the protocol for greeting the recently undead.

Lucky for him, Miranda took charge. He was starting to think that was a trend of hers.

“Commander Shepard, you’ll be pleased to find that I was able to get a head start on assembling a crew. Joker and Dr. Chakwas were eager to rejoin.”

She placed emphasis on the word rejoin, and before Shepard could say anything, Joker quipped, “What did being dead for two years make you forget the best damn pilot and doctor you’ve ever had the pleasure of working with?”

Shepard’s eyes settled on him. Her gaze was hard, cold even, and the smile that tugged at the corner of her lips didn’t reach her eyes. Joker tried not to look away, but he felt like he was being sized up, scrutinized. He wanted to make another joke, wanted to blurt the depressing greeting he had nixed earlier, but before he could, she answered him, her voice blank: “Yes.”

They all waited for her to say she was joking.

She looked at Dr. Chakwas but didn’t move, and Joker realized she was very close to him, invading his personal bubble. “Hey doc,” she said.

“Commander Shepard, a pleasure.” Chakwas extended her hand and the women shook and followed with a pleasant, but superficial, exchange of words.

Joker half listened to their idly conversation but roused himself when he noticed Shepard’s gaze returned to him. “I’m told you have something to show me,” she inquired playfully. Whatever he had seen before was gone, and her cheeks were flush. “I’m told I have a really cool ship.”

This was familiar ground. _This_ he could do.

“Oh yeah, wait until you see.” He turned away and headed towards the viewing platform, Shepard only a few paces behind. “They only told me yesterday.”

“Told you what?”

As if on cue, the hanger was flooded with light, each strategically placed bulb illuminating the ship in all her glory.

“Holy shit!” Shepard breathed a sigh of wonder and pressed her fingers to the glass that separated them from the ship. “That’s the _Normandy_!”

Joker matched her shit-eating grin with one of his own. “There are a few changes but-“ he paused to look out over the ship. She was bigger, clean, without a dent or scratch to prove she was a real warship. They even said she was faster. “Yeah,” he continued after a moment, “it’s still her.”

Shepard let out a low, long whistle. The _Normandy_ _SR1_ had been impressive, and even those without a deeper appreciation of ships had respect for what she could do, but he didn’t remember Shepard ever being this excited about the ship before. She was practically vibrating with enthusiasm, and he heard her whisper under her breath, “I bet I get my own room.” 

“It’s nice, isn’t it Commander?”

Reluctantly, she looked away from the ship. “What?”

“It feels a bit like coming home.”

Her smile caved, and Joker felt the tension rise around them. Something hot burned in his stomach like he had swallowed a heatsink. She pulled her lower lip between her teeth and didn’t look at him again.

 

* * *

 

The situation that demanded their immediate attention and kept Elisha from speaking to her mysterious patron may have been urgent, but the ride to Omega was long, and it was full of homework.

Miranda had expertly disengaged the two of them from crew banter, performing cursory introductions as they made their way through the ship and towards the captain’s quarters. Once alone, Miranda benevolently bestowed upon her a personal computer full of interviews, videos, witness footage, and news clips about Shepard 1.0. Then there had been information about the crew, current and former, anyone that had been a significant factor in helping the first Shepard track down Saren. 

_Then_ there had been the training schedule.

“What kind of training?” she asked, immediately suspicious. True, she wasn’t a fighter. Or a scrapper. Or particularly inclined to physical confrontations. She kept lean from a rigorous and unforgiving cardio program that included running, jumping, and escaping, but that was the extent of her dealings with the more personal side of her business. Lyra and Ewen had been the ones for anything that didn’t require a smart mouth. _Were_ the ones, she corrected herself. She was dead, not them.

“For one, the commander was a highly skilled biotic. I upgraded you to an L5 implant, but that won’t be enough. You’ll have to train to be able to safely and effectively execute your natural abilities.”

The commander. That one wasn’t Shepard, not anymore; Elisha repeated her new name in her head. The commander had been a highly skilled biotic, Shepard is a highly skilled biotic. _I am a highly skilled biotic_.

Elisha rolled her head to look up at Miranda from where she had prostrated herself on the bed. “I don’t usually use biotics,” she admitted. She hated that her voice sounded so whiny, but the topic was uncomfortable for her. Lyra had offered to train her - an offer she’d rejected.

Elisha didn’t use biotics, _but_ , she chided herself, _Shepard does._ **_I_** _do_. 

If Miranda caught on to her discomfort or hesitation, she didn’t acknowledge it. She was still near the door and didn’t look like she was going to come in and make herself comfortable. “You were also in the Alliance. You’ll need the poise, an understanding of the code she lived by, and familiarity with weapons.” As if she knew, Miranda held up a hand and pressed forward: “A familiarity with weapons _other than_ point-and-shoot tactics.”

The silence was softened by music, and Shepard tapped a finger to the beat as Miranda began listing all the things she would need to do.

“Read the dossier on Archangel. We’ll be getting him first. It appears the whole of Omega is mobilized against him, and we need to extract him now if he’s going to be of any use to us.”

At least that was a name she knew. “Yeah, no wonder. What a pain in the ass.”

“We’ll be there in six hours,” was the last thing Miranda said before turning on her heel and leaving Shepard 2.0 to her own devices.

Her new quarters were bigger than anything she had slept in before. The room even came with a fish tank. “Hey EDI?” she asked as she got off the bed and headed towards the area of her giant room that had been furnished as an office. “Where can I get fish for my fish tank?”

The strange little light show that represented the ship’s VI blinked on in the corner. “The Citadel has many shops that would suit your search. Citadel Souvenirs, in particular, has a wide selection.”

Shepard nodded, then realizing she was talking to the ship, vocalized her thanks. She turned on the computer and skimmed through the files. Details on the commander’s former team were basic and looked like profiles and write-ups that had been pulled from other sources, though Miranda had anointed them with dates and further information she felt important. 

 

 

 

> Commander Jane Shepard, in all her infinite wisdom, backpedaled on what has been a long-standing safety commitment by the Council to not negotiate with terrorists. Her decision to let the biotics that kidnapped Chairman Burns go free will have lasting implications! What lessons will other extremists, unhappy with the democratic process that governs the galaxy, take from this? No doubt that they can get what they want if they just put the right person at the business end of a pistol! Trusted sources confirm that Kaidan Alenko and Liara T’Soni, two of Commander Shepard’s most dangerous cohorts, were present at the hostage situation. No surprise that three biotics were sympathetic to the plight of terrorists. If the Council refuses to take responsibility for the machinations of known biotic Commander Shepard, then we must! We must -
> 
> The article was marked with an amendment from Miranda: _Chairman Burns recently succeeded in securing reparations for biotics suffering side effects from the outdated L2 implant. There hasn’t been a notable increase in kidnappings of public figures. Kaidan Alenko was killed in action on Virmire._

There was more information on his death, but she skipped it for now, focusing on those who were still alive.

Many of the profiles ended with surprising uniformity.

Ashley Williams: CLASSIFIED; LOCATION UNKNOWN.

Tali’Zorah nar Rayya: LOCATION UNKNOWN.

Garrus Vakarian: LOCATION UNKNOWN.

The two that had been tracked down, Urdnot Wrex and Liara T’Soni, didn’t offer much else. The asari had been labeled untrustworthy, and the krogan hadn’t left his homeworld in over a year. 

If she didn’t need to worry about the old crew, she thought it better to turn her attention to the woman whose face she was wearing, and she started looking for a video of the first Shepard. She found plenty and randomly decided on an interview. Text at the bottom of the screen showed the network and interviewer’s name, but the camera was centered on the commander. She was blinking at the lights, a bemused expression belying the tension held in her shoulders. With her arms crossed, she looked big, and the friendly curve of her lips didn’t lessen her imposing figure. The Shepard that had replaced her looked down at her own arms with a frown. The first Shepard could have snapped her in half. Maybe Miranda was right about the training….

On screen, the commander was answering a question with a smile. “The Spectres represent the best of every species in the galaxy. To be asked to join them is an honor.”

The questions continued, and the commander tactfully handled even the most insidious of the interviewer’s inquiries. If she felt annoyed with the line of questioning, her face didn’t tell. In the end, she inclined her head in a friendly gesture. “I should go,” she said with a smile.

“I should go,” the former smuggler parroted back, trying to match the tone. She rewound the video. Pressed play.

“I should go,” said the face on the screen.

“I should go,” repeated Shepard.

She watched a few more videos but found the cadence was easy to pick up. The commander always held her head high, she smiled with her teeth, and she made direct eye contact. Shepard guessed that before she had died, she had usually gotten her way. There was a charged air around her that was visible even in video, a niceness that came from the expectation that there would be little resistance, and if there were, it was nothing she couldn’t handle. 

There was one clip that had been featured in a news program, a well dressed and dewy-faced asari narrating eyewitness reports over what looked like security footage. The text overlay read ON THIN ICE: SPECTACULAR SPECTRE SHOWDOWN. The Spectre in question was in the middle of the room, flanked by an asari - Liara T’Soni, according to the crew notes Miranda provided - and the same turian she had seen all those years ago on the program that had announced to the world Jane Shepard was dead - Garrus Vakarian. They were a few paces away from another trio, this one all humans. The video had no sound, but one of the humans was irritated, and she waved her hands in front of her like she was dismissing something. The two with her went to pull their weapons, but the commander and her crew were quicker. A brief but explosive firefight followed, and the footage stopped just as the floor buckled under a wave of blue light.

Shepard turned off the rest of the clip and perused her reading options. She looked wistfully at the giant bed. How long had it been since she had a bed of her own? She had been sleeping foot to head, sandwiched between any combination of her old crew, for years.

With a sigh, she turned back to the computer. Time enough to enjoy a big bed later. Right now she had work to do.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://fontmeme.com/mass-effect-font/)

“Yeah, yeah, get the fuck out of the way Moklan. I know the drill: talk to Aria, don’t fuck with Aria, sheesh.”

Much to the shock of the batarian, Shepard shouldered her way past him, Miranda and Jacob silent in her trail. The first time she had come to Omega, that guy had scared her half to death, and his throaty warning that she better check in with Aria had left her feeling cold and hot all at once. It was the first, and last, time she had interacted with the Queen of Omega, partly due to the nature of their business and mostly due to the fact that the asari woman made her incredibly nervous and inhumanly sweaty. That had been a year ago, and she had introduced herself as Neva Wembley.

Now here she was again, with a new name and a kinda new face, and drastically different business. 

“Seen him before, Commander?” Jacob was walking next to her and Shepard reigned in the side eye. Miranda warned her that he wasn’t aware of the pet project that had brought her to life. Apparently, she was even more top secret than the first bonkers plan to resurrect the commander. Still, she couldn’t tell if that was true. Miranda and Jacob seemed to have some sort of relationship that went deeper than buddies-from-work, and it was hard to pick up on his tone. Was he asking in earnest or ribbing her?

“I was here once before. Spectre business, ya know how it is,” she finally confided, deciding that if he knew and wanted to role-play, she would indulge him. _Spectre business_ felt official.

“What a piss-hole.” Miranda wrinkled her nose as they exited the docking bay.

“Don’t let Aria hear you say that,” Shepard warned.

As they approached _Afterlife_ , Shepard’s pulse quickened and she tried to keep her eyes straight ahead. Each step towards the entrance was met with the loud throb of blood in her ears. She balled her hands into fists to keep them from shaking.

“They left the station yesterday,” Miranda said in her ear. If Jacob heard her, he didn’t look like he was paying attention and he didn’t slow his pace as the two women dropped a step behind.

“Which means that it’s been a week since you got me.”

Miranda didn’t confirm the timeline, but it didn’t matter. Lyra had booked passage to Omega for four days after their sojourn on the Citadel. She would have stayed for two days before meeting Tuvus at the docking bay and buying passage on a charter that would take her to whatever station the _Diplomat_ had ended up.

Knowing that Lyra and Tuvus were gone loosened the clammy grip of panic. She hadn’t planned what she would do if she saw them and thought it better that she wasn’t tested in that regard.

The doors to the club opened automatically as the trio approached. Offensively loud synth music poured out with enough bass to pack a wallop as they pushed their way through the crowd. It was loud enough that Shepard hoped no one heard her swallowing back the lump that had lodged itself in her throat.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://fontmeme.com/mass-effect-font/)

The first shot was absorbed in a flare of blue, but the second hit its mark, and the human fell at the feet of his companions. One of them hadn’t been paying attention and paid the price by tripping over the dead biotic, and Garrus shot him between the eyes as he pitched forward. The others ducked for cover, and he took advantage of the moment that afforded to reload.

“ _57_ ,” Grundan Krul said.

If there were a limit to how many stims Garrus’ body could handle, he had surpassed it 17 hours ago. Krul had appeared soon after his nose started to bleed, the ghostly hallucination nearly indistinguishable from the man he had been, except for a ripple of blue light around his head and shoulders. An aura, a halo, the spirits of his family anchoring him to this world - Garrus couldn’t remember what Krul had believed in life, didn’t know how to interpret his presence. He was helpful at least, counted his shots down as he got closer and closer to zero, marked the dwindling hours before Garrus joined him.

“ _Minutes, more like_ ,” his ghost corrected.

A flash of movement drew his attention back to the window, and he adjusted the direction of his rifle. He looked down the sights. Squeezed off a round.

“ _56_.”

There were two left behind cover, the tell-tale sign of a biotic signature distorting the space around one of the crates, but the numbers weren’t in his favor for long - more gang members, mercs, and hired guns were vaulting over the divide.

Heat signatures overwhelmed his visor as the mass of bodies rushed forward. He wondered briefly what they had been told, if they all had a vendetta against him or if they were just in it for the money. What was his head worth to Jaroth, Garm, and Tarak? It had to be enough to make the job worthwhile or so little that they could hire enough bodies. He felt a brief and dangerous swell of pride as he pulled the trigger. There were a lot of people.

“ _55\. 54. 53_.” He tore through his remaining rounds, armor and flesh parting before him. “ _48_.”

“Spirits!”

“ _You’ve lost your edge, Vakarian_.”

His mandibles clacked in frustration. The batarian pitched forward, some part of his leg turning to mush as his bullet tore through. It stopped him but didn’t kill him. It was a waste of ammunition. A waste he couldn’t afford.

There was a brief respite as the forces conspiring against him gathered for another rush. The bodies were piled high across the bridge. There had been a duo who had been clearing bodies, working in tandem to throw them over the side or pull them behind cover, but there had been enough rushes in their final push against him that the two had been victim to his rifle.

He looked through his sights, zooming in as much as he could in an attempt to parse the game-plan. Jartoh was shouting, one hand pointing towards the bridge and the other rotating at his side. 

They were sending another barrage of fodder.

Bodies rushed by and headed towards the one point of access available to them. That bridge had been his saving grace. For a time.

A woman in white sauntered forward, her armor and casual countenance enough to draw Garrus’ attention.She didn’t look like anyone from Omega he had seen before. A man was standing next to her and from behind the pair rushed a third figure dressed in black. A flash of familiar red bobbed past his sights.

He tracked her movements, watching in mute deference as she headed towards the divide. A few figures on the bridge slinked closer. They were unaware that he was distracted and brave enough to risk the open expanse and move to cover closer towards his side.

He fired a round into an arm that was sticking out. A howl of pain wafted up to his nest as he swung back towards the warehouse, looking for the black armor with the slash of red he had last seen two years ago. 

“No, that’s not possible.” Garrus looked up, peered across the bridge.

“ _Anything’s possible these days_.”

He lost the three figures and could no longer make out the second ghost he was certain he had just spotted. A group was gathering, but they hadn’t pushed forward yet. They were waiting for something, a direction.

The deafening screech of metal waking up, the squeal of parts grinding together, caused a stir in the crowd and his pulse to flutter. Behind the group, the bulky metal visage of a mech came into view. Even without his scope, Garrus could see a salarian behind the controls.

Time slowed around Garrus. His limbs were leaden, inflexible, the joints locked. It took an inordinate amount of effort for him to aim, to set his scope, and crouch behind cover. Through the pinpoint of his visor, he watched the red-headed woman burst out from the center of the group. Her elbows were high, her teeth barred, and in the wake of jostled gang members came the woman and man he had spotted in her tow moments before.

An explosion kicked time back into gear.

Garrus counted aloud with Krul as he unloaded rounds into anyone advancing across the bridge. The warehouse that had sheltered so many of his enemies was engulfed in flame now, sending even those who would have waited across the bridge sooner than planned. The sprinklers came on with a rapid flash of white light and an accompanying whistle, but they only kept the flames from dancing across the bridge.

Even over the cacophony of shouts and alarms, he heard her voice as she patched into his commline.

“Hey fucker, I’m here to save you. Don’t shoot me.”

Her voice was different than he remembered, higher pitched and twangy.

Two years, he thought even as he said, “Not even a few concussive rounds to keep them from figuring it out?” he joked. Not even stress could kill that instinct.

“Don’t you - “

He shot at a figure a few paces behind the woman in black. It was met with the satisfactory drop of a dead body and a hiss in his intercom.

“You’re a real funny asshole, know that? Can see why you’ve made so many friends.”

“ _Did she always have a shit sense of humor_?” For the first time since he had appeared, Krul crossed from the corner and leaned over the railing to get a better look. He was close enough to Garrus that he should have felt his presence - instead, all he got was a cold puff of air.

She was approaching fast, the three of them making quick work of anyone in their way while he kept their backs clear. “Head straight on through,” he directed them, “the stairs are open.”

“Idiot,” was the last thing she said before cutting the connection.

The rush over the bridge was winding down, and the fire had been beaten back enough that they were gathering for another go. Her handiwork, he assumed. A ploy to buy them extra time or to take as many of them out as possible?

21\. He had 21 bullets left, but for the first time in days, he felt like he had a real chance.

The bridge was clear when they appeared, the woman in white in the lead. The familiar face with the not-so-familiar voice was eyeing her surroundings with a smug look.

“So,” she began, making a beeline for the table where he had laid out his remaining heat sinks. He kept his helmet on as he watched her, hiding from view the bemused expression that was twisting his plates. “Looky here! What a find.” She bent over and swooped something off the table. Amusement quickly turned to embarrassment.

“ _Busted_ ,” Krul said. He disappeared in the blink of an eye - the apartment was too small for two ghosts.

“I-“

“Sampling the merchandise?” She held a small vial to the light and balanced it in the palm of her hand. “You turians sure do love your hyperfrost. Don’t tell me you spent it all at once?”

If her expression hadn’t been so smug, one eyebrow arched and lips pursed in the familiar human expression he could never mimic, he might have apologized. Shepard, back from the void, and the first real thing she did was tease him about drug use.

Two years ago, Shepard lecturing him would have been a nightmare - her even tones and gently sloping lips reminding him of days caught sneaking home past curfew. She had only raised her voice once, a memory he and Liara shared over drinks two months after the _Normandy_ was torn apart. He didn’t see that tired anger in her now.

“It helps with the target practice,” he finally said. He removed his helmet and locked eyes with his newest haunt.

It was the man who spoke first, reminding Garrus that Shepard had come with back up. “Garrus Vakarian, now that’s a surprise.” He laughed, and Garrus looked over at the two still standing near the doorway. “A lot of people have been looking for you.”

“Yeah,” he said, motioning with his head out the window. “Get in line.”

“This is unexpected,” the woman admitted, and she shot a look across the room to Shepard, an expression he couldn’t read momentarily darkening her features. Shepard’s smiled deepened, her gums pink against white teeth.

“Holy fuckin’ shit. I know you,” she said, waving a finger at him as she stepped closer. “Garrus! This is great.” She looked at the other two. “Miranda, Jacob, I know this guy.”

Miranda’s placid expression soured. Jacob stepped forward and tried to say something: “Shepard, maybe - “

“Hey wait, I have a question.”

The stims had confused him over the last few days - they kept him aware, sharp, and trigger-happy, but time had slipped from him. He felt that slip now as he watched Shepard step close. He felt nonchalant because of the drugs - he couldn’t place why she seemed so nonplussed.

“Garrus,” she said, dropping her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I watched a couple old vids, like interviews and stuff, just because - uh, been dead. Needed to recharge the brain.”

He nodded along. Things were getting murky again, he was having a hard time staying focused on -

“Did you and that quarian - “ she snapped her fingers twice - “uh, Tali, ever fuck?”

“Shit,” Jacob murmured, one hand to his brow as he looked at Shepard.   

“Shepard, that hardly matters,” Miranda snapped.

Garrus ignored them. “Do you think she would have?” he asked.

“Got that vibe, that’s for sure.” Shepard smiled again, and this close he could see the bags beneath her eyes and the delicate network of veins on her eyelids.

“It’s good to see you, Shepard.”

“Nice to meet you - again.”

He was left to ponder over her cryptic message as she walked over to the window and announced another wave of hungry mercs.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not going to write all the squaddies' recruitment missions, but if there is someone you really want to see recruited after you-know-what and before a jump cut to the main squad all aboard, let me know! :) I'm happy to include them if reading it would be interesting.
> 
>  
> 
> Come hang with me!


	4. Breathless

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The last week of October was hectic, but the chapter is here at last.

You bring me good news from the clinic,

Whipping off your silk scarf, exhibiting the tight white

Mummy-cloths, smiling: I’m all right.

\- _Face Lift_ , Sylvia Plath

 

* * *

 

It was easy to forget the dangers of living on a station when everything was working properly. Breathable air piped in through vents, artificial gravity keeping heads in the right direction and feet planted, wizened faces selling hothouse fruits and vegetables in markets that mimicked the ones pulled from dirt planetside. For some, living in space was so natural that the realities of life in a metal structure slipped from the mind easily.

Both Shepards grew up on Earth, and while she couldn’t answer any questions about the original commander’s first time in space, her first time aboard a station only included a visual tour of whatever she could see from the toilet she was hunched over. She’d adapted to moving through space, the tilt of a small ship and the sporadic gravity that came with priorities that weren’t comfortable living arrangements, but stations always made her uneasy.

The fire had been a great idea - in theory. A fire on a ship as small as _the Diplomat_ would be a death sentence, but she had thought a substantially sized station would have a better response than venting. It turns out Omega did have a hardy fire response protocol, and it included partitioning the entire sector off and cutting air flow. 

She hadn’t expected that. It was why she hated stations.

“EDI, do you have an update on the override?” Miranda remained perfectly disheveled, and deprived of air flow her voice had taken on a husky drawl. _Some people have it all_ , Shepard thought bitterly as she felt rivulets of sweat run down her neck and pool beneath the hard outer shell of her armor. Shepard looked like a wet pyjak; Miranda looked like a shimmery goddess.

“The security protocols are surprisingly robust. I require more time.” They had patched Garrus into the _Normandy_ comms, but for ease, EDI was broadcasting out loud with Shepard’s omnitool acting as the speaker.

“Aria has a lot of secrets,” Garrus mused. He was the least affected, though Shepard wasn’t sure if turians sweated. He was perched in the same spot where they had found him, his rifle out the window and one foot propped on the table.

The good news was that the heat was also slowing down the mercenaries. There had been two small pushes across the bridge since the four had joined forces, but it had been nearly an hour since the last attack, and as anxious as she was to be off the station, she appreciated the break.

Jacob looked wary when he returned and produced only a handful of heat sinks to show for his time scouring the lower level.

“That’s it?” Shepard whined despite the obvious answer. The heat was making her crabby, and it was starting to show. Garrus spared her a quick glance, mandibles tight to his face. _Square up_ , she told herself, _you’ve got an audience_.

She stood up and stretched her arms as far above her head as her suit would allow. It was time for a plan. EDI was doing whatever she could from the _Normandy,_ but they wouldn’t find out if the plan was a failure until it was too late. Best to start planning for a daring escape now, especially with firefights and an unknown number of mouth breathers hogging all the air just a short distance away.

“Could you see any fires when you patrolled the area?” she asked Jacob.

“Whatever is going on over there is keepin’ them busy,” he said as he walked to Garrus’ side and peered across the bridge. “I didn’t see any sprinklers or fire assistant drones.”

EDI chimed in, “The drones are only deployed for large fires including two or more sectors.”

“Can you tell if there are any active fires in our area?”

There was a moment of silence before her omnitool blinked with an incoming video.

“I do not know,” EDI said as Shepard opened her tool, “but I was able to gain access to camera feeds in this district.”

“I fuckin’ love this ship,” she whispered to Jacob.

“I am _not_ the ship, but thank you.”

A grid of videos displayed across her screen and she selected one at random. It pulled up the feed for an empty bedroom, the timestamp up-to-date, the seconds rolling by the only proof it was a video and not an image.

“This look familiar to you?” She swung her arm out towards Garrus.

“That’s here,” he said after a cursory glance. “Down the hall.”

She squinted at the video. “Looks clean - you didn’t live here before?”

“This shithole? No,” Garrus snorted dismissively, then after a pause glanced over at her, brow ridge low. “What does that mean?”

She flipped through the feeds until she found a camera that showed the lower level. With a shrug, she stated, “Uhhh, you’re a slob. Do you think we could do a local override of this door here?” She pointed to a door behind the stairs that showed a yellow hazard lock.

“Huh, maybe. Can one of you - ?” Garrus looked to the other humans and motioned towards the window. Miranda took his spot as lookout, and Garrus and Jacob crowded the surveillance footage displayed on Shepard’s omnitool. “There is a network of ventilation corridors down there. I shuttered the vents when I first got here - could hear them scampering around before I figured out where they were coming from. And, for the record, I’m not a _‘slob.’_ ”

“Lost in translation.” She looked up at him with a devious smile that crinkled her nose. “What do you call people who leave their stims and spent thermal clips littered all around them?”

Jacob, to his credit, ignored them. “Whatever lockdown you put the vents in would have been overridden by station security. Everything’s locked through central security system, nothing’s local.”

“Perhaps EDI would have better luck with one local system, rather than the entire network,” Miranda suggested.

Shepard nodded and pushed a sweat-drenched lock of hair behind her ear. The heat was getting worse and with it came the smell of bodies. Not just the ones roasting on the bridge, but the living, ripe musk of sweating animals penned together. She tucked her chin towards her chest and tried to discreetly get a whiff of herself.

“You stink,” Jacob confirmed. “But we all do. Except maybe Garrus.”

“I don’t stink,” the turian affirmed.

Shepard scowled and geared up a pithy retort, but her energy was draining fast. Her ears were ringing. Jacob’s left eye was bloodshot. Miranda was turning grey.

They were running out of time.

“Do you think they get paid if you suffocate to death?” she asked Garrus. “Or do I get paid, since I started the fire?”

Jacob wheezed and knocked his fist against her shoulder. “You’d have a hell of a time convincing them to pay you after you electrocuted Cathka, but I have a feeling you could talk it outta ‘em.”

He was making a good show of being unaffected, and she found herself choking out a laugh in the face of his good cheer. “I actually wasn’t expecting that to happen,” she admitted. “Meant to just conk ‘im over the head.”

EDI reminded them of the task at hand: “Miranda is correct - I may be able to more quickly gain control over the series of vents below you. However, I would need time for each lock, and blueprints suggest there are three in total. You would be slow moving.”

Shepard bit down on her thumb as she contemplated their options. The taste of balasticweave, oil, and something alarmingly tangy on her glove made her recoil in disgust. She drummed her fingers against her thigh instead.

Going back the way they came wasn’t an option - they had managed this long because of their vantage and the choke point. Even with the additional thermal clips they brought and what Jacob had found, they would be brutally overrun if they tried to overtake the gangs on the ground. If they were going to get out of here and still leave the gangs unaware, they needed to move point by point through the sector.

“Could you seal the door again behind us?” she asked.

“Of course,” EDI replied matter-of-factly.

“That’s the pla-“

She was interrupted by the roar of a gunship starting its engines.

They were out of time.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://fontmeme.com/mass-effect-font/)

 

Dr. Karin Chakwas didn’t make it a habit of monitoring frequencies while any of the crew were on a mission, but she found herself on the bridge and standing next to Joker soon after EDI had informed them that the trio had landed on Omega. This was their first mission back together, and the pang of longing for familiar faces from the _Normandy SR1_ made her seek Joker out. Soon enough it would all be normal again, but for now, it still felt like a dream. She needed something to anchor her to the reality of the commander being back.

Shepard’s suit was feeding everything to the ship’s VI where it was being turned into bits of data and stored away. The pair listened in silence as she coyly probed Aria for information regarding the location of the vigilante they currently sought and the doctor they would no doubt look for soon after.

Chakwas made a note of the things that Shepard was not answering, inquiries into her seemingly miraculous resurrections sliding off her slippery countenance.

“I see why this wasn’t standard protocol in the Alliance,” Joker said as he swung his chair toward her. Nothing of note had happened since they had left Aria, but the feed was still recording.

“Yes,” she agreed as she watched the spike of vocal frequencies flash across the console. “Ms. Lawson has many curious ideas.”

“This is a standard safety protocol,” EDI informed them. The vaguely head shape that represented the VI’s presence blinked into existence next to Chakwas’ elbow. “It is required for all Cerberus away teams. I have informed Mr. Moreau that the feed can be silenced; it is not required that we broadcast.”

“I don’t take advice from talking machinery.” Joker glared at the source of what had quickly become his greatest annoyance. That Joker insisted on talking to the VI, even looking at the spot that projected her voice, had just as quickly become a great source of amusement for the doctor, but she knew better than to point it out.

“You must be pleased,” she began, steering the conversation into safer territory, “to be back on the _Normandy_.”

“You bet!” His foul expression melted into true happiness as he swung back to face his consoles, his fingers spread wide and suspended above the screen in anticipation of needing to do something. “I missed this ship. And you,” he added after a pause.

“Don’t you dare flatter me, Mr. Moreau,” she said with a laugh. She rested her hand gently on his shoulder and felt them shake with laughter.

The last thing they heard was Shepard telling Jacob and Miranda to run as soon as she lit the charge, the woman’s voice high pitched with laughter as Miranda tried to protest. The crackle of static that followed sent a chill of terror through Chakwas. _Not again,_ she thought, _not so soon._

EDI quickly assured the pair that the explosion had only damaged long-range communication, though she was still linked to their local network, and the three were fine. “The sector has been put into standard fire-response lock down,” EDI explained.

“What’s her game?” Joker asked Chakwas. He looked at her over his shoulder, his expression dark.

“What do you mean?”

“Now they’re cornered and all the exits are sealed. What’s the plan? I don’t get it.”

Chakwas kept her face placid as the acidic tide of doubt churned her gut. “I’m sure the commander knows what she’s doing,” she assured him with an affable smile. “She always had a flair for the dramatic. Let me know if you need anything, I think it’s time I return to my office.”

“Eh, sure thing, doc.” Joker was distracted by something on his screen, though he gave her a quick smile before she left.

Miranda had approached Chakwas only a few months before, and the story she spun seemed unbelievable. The doctor was familiar with Miranda Lawson but knew little about the covert department she ran. There were rumors aplenty as to what her real job was and what she was really up to, but Chakwas had placed little stock in the noisy clanking of the rumor mill.

The hushed secrets thought up by the rumor mill, it turned out, had been far too limited in scope. No one was thinking big enough, dark enough.

Miranda offered to show her, and Chakwas had foolishly agreed. The woman took her to an elevator she had never seen before,and the two descended deeper into the base. The lab was cold, and although Miranda seemed unperturbed by the change in temperature, Chakwas felt the chill seep through her thin lab coat and slice to the marrow of her bone. It hadn’t been a far walk, the lab hidden enough that there was no need for additional subterfuge.

And there she was. Commander Shepard. Her broken body stitched back together, her fingers and toes blue tinged from the cold. A monitor displayed the rhythm of her heart, a mask fogged with her breath. Nothing showed the state of her brain, that fragile piece of machinery that was responsible for it all.

Chakwas had believed Miranda that it was possible, and had given her word that when the commander was ready, she would be there by her side. There had been one condition, something she would have been remiss not to request: she wanted the data.

Four months late and here she was, the _Normandy_ singing a familiar song around her, her office the same and yet better, and Joker at the helm. But she had no data, and she suspected they had no commander.

Once in her office, Chakwas pulled up the files she had been allowed access to. Neural reports, mainly: a write up on the effectiveness of the procedure used that encouraged adult neurogenesis, the glowing conclusion; Shepard’s first verbal interview and the - expectedly - mixed results, stumbles and successes meaning more work was needed but that they were on the right track.

If the science was real, then the implications of the Lazarus Project would cause shockwaves throughout the galaxy. Even if Cerberus refused to share their research and findings, Commander Jane Shepard returning could only mean one the thing. There would be copycats, and someone, somewhere, would succeed.

EDI blinked on in the corner a fraction of a second before Joker’s voice rang out through the room: “We’ve got them back on the line; you should listen to this.”

“Shepard?” Chakwas said into the silence. There was a hiss as their comms came back online and the silence warped into pops of gunfire.

“ _Doctor_?” Shepard inhaled loudly, a dry, ragged sound. “ _Can - hear me?”_

“Yes, I can. What’s going on?”

“ _Stupid_ \- _he - got shot,”_ she huffed.

“Are you able to get Jacob back to the ship?” The medbay was fully stocked, and even without Jacob’s records on hand, she was confident they would have whatever blood he needed for a transfusion.

“ _It’s - not him - fuck -”_ The line cut out and the silence echoed in the medbay. Chakwas looked to EDI and asked, “When did they reestablish contact?”

“Just now, doc,” was Joker’s reply. He must have been broadcasting the ground team’s line from his own link on the bridge. “She came on saying - “

“ _Havin’ a - a - hard time. Can’t make - the ship. Too far.”_

She sounded delirious, her voice drifting in and out as her thoughts left off in fragments. When she wasn’t speaking, the sound of her breathing took up the vacant space. Desperate inhales and shaky exhales.

The sound of someone running out of air. It seemed that Joker was onto something; she had both trapped them and killed them with the fire stunt. What _had_ she been thinking?

_“_ Who was shot, Commander?”

“ _Turian. Turian bad boy_.” Her laugh was girlish and eerily out of place. “ _His words.”_

“I have their trajectory through the ventilation corridors,” EDI said. “It would be wise for someone to meet them at the last checkpoint. They will be there in - “ a slight pause as the VI calculated - “ten minutes.”

_“Meet - you there, doc. He’ll live - we can…”_ she trailed off, and the line followed.

“Can you send a request to anyone on Omega?” Chakwas grabbed the travel medkit that hung just inside the medbay doors and started towards the airlock. She motioned to two of their newest recruits wrestling with a vacuum-sealed bag in the mess. “Do either of you have any medical training?” she asked. They had yet to find a full crew for the ship, and she lacked trained ground medics.

The two exchanged a look before one offered, “I did a stint on farms to fund my travels through South America. _Woof,_ or sumthin’.” His teeth peeked through a shy smile as he gently laid the package on the counter. 

“WWOOF,” the woman corrected.

Chakwas smiled as she patiently herded them back to the topic at hand. Everyone always thought working on a farm instilled them with emergency medical training. “If you can hand me supplies,” she amended, “and have a steady hand, that’s all I need.” When they nodded, one after the other, she gestured for them to follow. “You’re both with me.”

The two fell in line behind her as she accessed EDI on her omnitool. “I don’t recall seeing alien blood with my supplies,” she remarked dryly. “Having someone from Omega provide turian blood might be necessary.” Had they been on the real _Normandy,_ she would have it. Asari, krogan, turian, quarian - they made sure to have it all during their time spent chasing Saren.

If a VI could know it was delivering bad news, it would have sounded a little something like EDI as she said, “The clinic that operates on Omega is currently in the quarantine zone.”

“Of course it is.” Joker didn’t keep the sardonic edge from his voice, though Chakwas could hear the tremor of worry hidden beneath his sarcasm.

“There are no other doctors on Omega?” Chakwas demanded, half in disbelief.

“Aira T’Loak appears to be in control of many of the services.”

Aria T’Loak _,_ the pirate queen of Omega. She had never met the asari herself, but reputation of the conditions on Omega were circulated far and wide. Even without personal knowledge of the woman, Chakwas was familiar with the type. She wouldn’t keep everything under her thumb unless she expected an exchange to be of value.

Chakwas and her makeshift medical team disembarked the _Normandy_ in silence, her mind reeling as she sorted her options by those most likely to help her reach the commander. She had no idea what ‘ _he got shot’_ looked like - how much blood had he lost? Was he conscious? Were Miranda and Jacob? There were too many unknowns for her to wait and see.

“EDI, please show me where I am headed. Joker, contact Aria - “ he tried to interrupt her, but she pushed on - “ _contact Aria_. There is value in Shepard owing Omega a favor. Once she has agreed, show them where to meet me and they can help me back to the _Normandy._ I’ll need turian blood.”

“Let the record show that I think this idea is insane,” he said.

“I am not your commanding officer, Mr. Moreau. Take it up with Ms. Lawson - or Shepard herself.”

Joker snorted but did as she asked, though not before muttering “Aye aye,” under his breath.

“You sure this is a good idea, doc?” one of the two vocalized behind her. “Aria ain’t the nicest lady.”

“I don’t need nice, Mr…?” she trailed off as she realized she hadn’t asked their names.

“Scott Zarif. This is my sister, Vira.” After a moment he added, “I got the boring name, perks of being the oldest.”

“I got the looks, too,” Vira teased.

“Well,” Chakwas continued, “we don’t need Aria to be nice, Mr. Zarif, we need her to be interested.”

Vira hummed a note of disapproval and told her brother in a low voice, “With people like that, best to be ignored.”

Chakwas pushed forward and pretended she hadn’t heard the warning.

 

* * *

 

[ ](https://fontmeme.com/mass-effect-font/)

 

“Just one more door,” Shepard huffed to the sad procession behind her. Their journey through the maze of corridors had been plagued from the start. Unbeknownst to them, there had been a squad attempting to regain access to the apartment from the basement, and while the fire lock had kept them from progressing any further, it was a surprise for both sides when the first door slid open to reveal four delirious Eclipse gang members. And they had reacted quicker than Shepard, and the leg she dragged behind her was proof of her incompetence.

The second tunnel had been easier, but by the time they made it there, what little strength they retained had depleted severely, and it took them twice as long to climb over jutting structures and slide through narrow shafts. All of it made more complicated by Garrus.

“How’s our incredibly valuable sniper?” she inquired.

Miranda had acted quickly when he had been shot, using her biotics to cradle him as the three of them struggled to drag him down the stairs. She kept him in a stasis field as they continued forward, a last-ditch attempt to staunch the blood he was losing from his head. “Head wounds always bleed a lot,” Jacob said when Shepard had paled at the amount of blue floating inside the field. “This one just looks bad.”

She didn’t believe him.

“He’s fine,” Miranda said through clenched teeth. She was supporting him almost entirely on her own, with Shepard in the lead and Jacob watching their back. It would be a lie if Shepard said she hadn’t been impressed when the supermodel hefted Garrus by herself, and she noticed with only a hint of jealousy that Miranda’s biotic control hadn’t wavered once. The woman, for all her pomp, could walk the walk.

“And how are you?”

“Shepard, can we keep moving, please?”

“Yeah, of course. Sorry.”

The last door was in sight, the yellow lock the only thing between them and freedom.

“Dr. Chakwas and a full complement are waiting for you, Commander,” EDI said. “I will have the door open in less than three minutes.”

“Oh, thank god.” Shepard leaned against the wall, putting all her weight on her good leg. It was a clean through-and-through, nothing medigel couldn’t fix, but it hurt. Most of their supply had been spent on keeping the turian’s face together, and so she had roughed it for most of their journey.

Thinking of him, she looked over to his motionless figure. Miranda had put him down near the door, though she maintained the field around him. If Miranda hadn’t been there, Garrus would be dead, Shepard knew that. She didn’t have the smarts to do what the woman had done, and she didn’t have the skill to keep his wound staunched the way she had. With a belayed ping, Shepard wondered what else Miranda could do - how powerful she really was. If she could really outsmart her in the end.

“Do you need me to do that?” she asked to assuage her worry, pushing away from the wall with a grunt and hobbling over. Miranda looked tried, and her healthy glow had faded into a deathly pallor.

Miranda apprised Shepard with a hint of doubt. “Is that something you can do?”

Shepard smiled sheepishly and shook her head, but she plopped down next to Miranda as best she could. “Not without some guidance.”

“Then no,” Miranda snapped.

Shepard felt defensive, but her retort was lost as the door slid open. Chilled, circulated air from the other room tickled her nose, and she inhaled deeply. “Stale station air! Oh, how I’ve missed you.”

A familiar batarian glared with all four eyes at the dirty, sweaty, and ugly group before him. “You locked us out of the systems. Or else we would have ended the quarantine,” he growled.

“Never mind all that.” Dr. Chakwas pushed past Moklan, two uniformed Cerberus grunts close on her heels. “My,” she drawled as she observed the scene before her, “what clever thinking, Miranda.”

Miranda offered a tight-lipped smile before releasing the stasis field. Chakwas responded quickly, applying more medigel to the wound before producing a small, pen-sized device from a small case. She smeared something thick and cream colored over Garrus’ face and used the pen to harden it, distorting his features with a quick-build cast. “That will do until we get back to the _Normandy_ ,” she said with a self-satisfied smile.

One of the two Cerberus agents motioned to a motley crew of aliens holding a large stretcher. Together, they rolled Garrus onto it and easily hoisted him in the air.

“And now for you, Commander,” the doctor said, turning her attention to Shepard and reaching for her leg.

“I’m okay. I can make it back to the ship. But Garrus is pumped full of stims.”

Chakwas’ brow furrowed in confusion. “I beg your pardon?”

Suddenly, Shepard felt foolish for saying anything. She spluttered a response and avoided eye contact. “I thought, uh, ya know, that him having drugs in his blood would affect surgery? Hyperfrost, a turian stimulant.”

“Hyperfrost… yes, I’m familiar with it.” She paused and looked to the turian with a critical eye. “A new one, isn’t it?”

Shepard didn’t follow. “What?”

“Nevermind. Always good to know, thank you,” the doctor said with forced cheer, but Shepard heard an edge to her voice. She tried to read Chakwas’ expression, but the older woman’s features displayed professional ease. Only her eyes betrayed her. Shepard felt splayed before those eyes, dissected and left bare.

Before departing, Moklin provided them with a surplus of turian blood, each bag neatly labeled and stored in a temperature controlled box. “It’s been a pleasure,” he jeered at Shepard as she limped past. “We’ll be seeing you.”

“Sure,” she replied, “always happy to kill more of your men.” She raised a finger in farewell and trailed after Chakwas, her gait slow and painful. The next time she set foot on Omega, she might just burn it all down.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my beta  Rosie  for all her insight and suggestions!

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to my beta reader, Rose (@black-rose4 on tumblr; black_rose4 on AO3).
> 
> Fancy font is from Font Meme!


End file.
